Within Our Bloodied Hands
by Galadriel1010
Summary: A story of blood and hope for Jack Harkness.


**Author's Note:** Story dedicated to Ruth, AKA Tellervo, AKA Istezada, who is made of win and the sauce of awesome. Inspired by her prompt: "We too shall carry hope within our bloody hands"

* * *

Jack had been around the block a few times, he'd seen the elephant, as it were, and he knew how much blood was too much. This, as he pressed his hand to his own stomach and sank to his knees, was too much blood. The world was going grey around the edges, sounds were dulled and the sharp, wet cold he should have felt when he fell to the snow-covered ground was just an ache, but the blood pouring over his hands, filling the world, was hot and sticky, and Ianto's hands cradling his face, his thumbs brushing across Jack's cheekbones, they were warm. Ianto's chest pressed against his back and his hand pressed on top of Jack's, harder than Jack could now, and he braced Jack against him, saying something against his neck. Jack couldn't make out sounds, he could just feel Ianto's lips moving against his neck, and he let out a yelp of pain when Ianto pressed even harder against the wound, then felt his other hand brushing down his arm, trying to sooth him and calm him. He wanted to tell him that he was fine, point out that he'd be back soon, but the grey was advancing and darkening, like fog late at night, and he gave into it, sinking back into Ianto's arms gratefully.

* * *

It was always harder to come back when he was cold, harder to warm up enough for life to flow through him again. This time, he came back and he was so, so cold. His clothes were soaked through and starting to freeze solid, but Ianto's arms were still around him, giving away Ianto's own shaking. Jack turned awkwardly and stiffly in his arms and buried his face in Ianto's chest, listening for his heartbeat and clinging onto him. Eventually Jack's shaking, at least, stopped, and he peeled himself off Ianto enough to search his too pale face and make sure that he was okay. "Ianto, Ianto?"

He finally looked up and met his eyes and Jack started rubbing his arms briskly, trying to get him warm again. "'m fine," Ianto insisted thickly.

"No you're not," Jack told him, getting to his feet hurriedly and pulling Ianto up behind him. "You're going into shock from the cold. Gods, Ianto, you should have left me."

Ianto staggered against Jack and shook his head. "Couldn' do that," he insisted. "Couldn't move you, but couldn't leave you."

The SUV wasn't far away, and Jack got Ianto settled into the passenger seat, then hurried around to get into the driver's seat, out of the snow. He was still far too groggy to drive, so he settled for turning the heating off and pulling Ianto's sodden clothes off him and helping him into the spare set kept under the seat for occasions like this. The jumper was too big for him, sized for Jack's wider shoulders, but the bottoms fitted better. At the end of the day, though, they were dry, and that was all that mattered. By the time Jack got the blanket from the back seat and insisted on tucking it securely around Ianto, his shaking had stopped and the colour had returned to his cheeks. "I'm fine, Jack," he insisted. "Just..." Jack stopped when Ianto shook his head, and watched in surprise as Ianto scrambled into the back and pulled him through. "I'm not suggesting anything," Ianto told him firmly. "Apart from warmth and greater comfort. Neither of us is in any state to drive."

Jack had to concede the point there so, wordlessly, he shifted Ianto around so that he could lean back against the door pillar, then let Ianto settle himself on top of Jack, with his ear pressed above Jack's heart. Threading his fingers through Ianto's damp, curling hair, Jack caught sight of his hands properly for the first time and lifted them clear of Ianto's clothes. "Blood," he announced stupidly. "Blood on my hands. Always blood on my hands."

Ianto reached into the emergency box and pulled out a pack of baby wipes, sitting up he took both of Jack's in one of his – the hand that he'd had pressed to Jack's wound and which was covered in Jack's blood – and started wiping them clean. His serene expression faltered occasionally, like a TV picture going out of focus, and his voice when he spoke was brittle. "I feel guilty, because I'm glad it's your blood instead of mine," he told Jack. "Because as hard as it is to see you die, it would be harder dying in your arms, and knowing that there's no one to put you back together. And then, sometimes, I don't want to die, because I don't want anyone else to put you back together, because I know that if you died for good, I wouldn't be able to carry on, and I never want to find out that you can, even though you have to. And I feel even worse when I think like that."

Jack digested this as Ianto wiped away the evidence of his most recent death and squeezed his hand gently. "I'm always glad when it's me rather than you, I don't want to have to carry on. I want to be able to stop and give up, to have the choice. I don't want to carry on without you."

This is the most they've ever spoken about... this. About the transience of what they share and how they feel about that. It could only happen at a time like this, when Jack is groggy and clingy from a recent death, and Ianto is more than usually shaken by it; it's just one of those things they don't talk about, as if hoping that not talking about it will make the elephant in the room disappear. Maybe it was something they needed to talk about, Jack mused. It was something he had long felt that Ianto needed to know.

Ianto stuffed the wipe into a door pocket and pulled another from the pack so that he could clean Jack's palms. "I wouldn't want you to stop, not really. Just, I don't know..."

"I do," Jack told him quietly. "You want to know that you matter, that I'm not just putting on a show for you now whilst you're here."

"Yeah," Ianto conceded. "I feel selfish."

"You aren't. Everyone wants to know that people will remember them, especially the people they care about," Jack lets Ianto manoeuvre his hands and then pulls another wipe out to do the same for Ianto. "I'll never forget you," he tells him hoarsely.

"Never's a long time."

"I'm a lot to contend with," Jack pointed out softly and firmly. "I will remember you."

Ianto just sighed and settled back into Jack's arms, cheek on his chest, lacing their fingers together. "Thank you, I'm sorry that I'm, you know..."

"Mortal?" Jack asked, and Ianto nodded. "Jones, Ianto Jones, you are amazing. I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

"Even if they had someone there to hold their hand?"

Jack raised their joined hands until he could see then, then rested them on his chest, in front of Ianto's nose. "Well, I guess then it might be bearable."


End file.
